


my hands are dirty with his blood

by meios



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Tinder made them do it, Vague Sex, slightly disturbing references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison is at least ninety percent sure that he’ll regret this when he walks into the pub. It’s locally owned, dimly lit and old-timey, all jukeboxes and Americana on the walls, the odd Mexican paraphernalia popping up here and there. They’re close to the border, and he’s heard at least twice by now, <i>All that American shit? Good aesthetic. Brings tourists in. They love this crap. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	my hands are dirty with his blood

Jack Morrison is at least ninety percent sure that he’ll regret this when he walks into the pub. It’s locally owned, dimly lit and old-timey, all jukeboxes and Americana on the walls, the odd Mexican paraphernalia popping up here and there. They’re close to the border, and he’s heard at least twice by now, _All that American shit? Good aesthetic. Brings tourists in. They love this crap._ And Jack can’t really find it in himself to argue, too busy pulling at the civvies Lúcio had forced him to wear. Too restrictive, too tight, and though even _Angela_ had wolf-whistled at him, a silly grin playing on her face, before he’d left, Jack can only sigh.

 

He glances at his cell phone screen, Tinder open and he immediately finds the icon disgusting and agonizing and everything bad. He’d shoot it if it were tangible. He’d shoot a lot of things if they were tangible, honestly. He’s at the right pub, on time, scanning the crowd from behind overly thick glasses, and yet he still squints. His cap shadows enough of the scars, but he still finds himself running a hand over his mouth—a nervous habit, Angela had said once. _You’re embarrassed by it_.

 

Jack had responded that he wasn’t embarrassed, no. Just conscious of them. From beside him, Fareeha had hummed, saying nothing else.

 

Honestly, he still can’t believe they had talked him into this. How Fawkes, of all people, had managed to convince him that this—calling a temporary truce, meeting on neutral ground, no weapons, no uniforms, nothing—was somehow a good idea, he still doesn’t know. Probably _won’t_ know, and though part of him is okay with that, the other part kind of wants to punch himself right now.

 

He and Gabriel don’t need weapons to be dangerous.

 

Finally, he sees a man raise his hand, gloved in leather— _real leather_ , too, and Jack pushes good memories, sad memories, down—and he walks over, slides into the booth opposite of the man. All dark skin and abnormal, vibrant red eyes, a slight animalistic edge to his greeting smile. “About time,” he said, and Jack scowls at him. “Thought you mighta found someone prettier than me.”

 

Jack’s gaze flickers downward to the carvings on the table, idle doodles by idle kids, random initials and dicks and hearts and lines. He runs a fingernail over them all, trying to formulate a reply that actually makes sense. Bites as much as Gabriel’s words always do. “Prettier ’n you? You know how easy that is?”

 

“Breakin’ my heart, Morrison.”

 

“Why are we even here again?” Jack sighs. Part of him enjoys this, the easy banter that doesn’t so much sting as it does burn, stripping him down into something raw and young again, scarless save for the few remnants of tree climbing and sliding into home plates and bike crashes on his knees and elbows. He feels a fire in his palms, in his mouth, takes a gulp of water to try and quell it, but, if anything, it only fuels the flames more.

 

“Hana got a hold of my phone. You?”

 

“Lena. And Lúcio.”

 

“Double trouble, eh, _chico_?”

 

Jack frowns, milky eyes magnified by his lenses, and he seems more owlish than anything else, as if he were wearing the Reaper mask, all sharp angles and ruffled feathers, puffing himself up to seem less scrawny, lean muscle and long torso working against him, always working against him. “Don’t.”

 

Gabriel smiles, leaning back in the booth, thick and big and snarky, his entire demeanor screaming _tease_ , and yet Jack still sees the blurry figment of the twenty-something boy in the bed next to him, careless touches behind closed doors, whispers in two languages that seemed to make sense, violence with a soft tint. They’re dangerous, and Jack knows this. They’re life-threatening together. “You loved it when I called you that before,” he says.

 

“Keyword: ‘Before,’” says Jack.

 

“You’re the one who ‘Super Liked’ me.” Gabriel winks.

 

He rolls his eyes. “You responded in kind.”

 

“I did. Hana did, but I did.”

 

Jack raises an eyebrow, looking Gabriel over from across the table, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “All that bloodlust goin’ to your head, Reyes? Starting to not make sense.” If only for something to do with his hands, he takes the cap from his head, hair all snowy feathers and rebellious cowlicks. Gabriel laughs, and it’s deeper than he remembers, but no less—well.

 

“Who made you get that stupid app, anyway, _chico_?” he asks, quiet, barely audible over the chatter and the music. Jack thinks the song must be a Springsteen track. He can’t remember the title.

 

“Angela. You?”

 

“Satya.”

 

“Really?”

 

Gabriel hums in response.

 

“Damn,” Jack replies, adding a low whistle as punctuation.

 

And there’s that smile again, crooked beneath his moustache, his goatee, and Jack thinks he might need to shave soon, if the shadow on his jaw and cheeks is anything to go by. (Part of him doesn’t want to see it go.)  The other man mumbles something that he doesn’t catch, doesn’t really mind missing it anyway, because under Gabriel’s own scars, own devilry—like he’s made of smoke, like he’s a ghost, a wisp, a mirage, faded at the edges of himself—is something eerily familiar, something like the boy in bed all those years ago.

 

(Stolen kisses, lingering glances, clichéd high school moments in a governmentally mandated institution, swallowed confessions because they didn’t need to say anything, connected in ways that made others jealous, reading each other, touching each other—)

 

“Beer?” he says suddenly.

 

“Read my mind, Morrison.”

 

Jack gets up, remembering the beer the other man had always ordered, the acidic taste when they’d shared, tasting it again later on, and he asks for two, paying up front. The bartender is a nice looking woman, low pigtails the color of rust, a dusting of freckles on her face, her neck, her shoulders. She smirks at him when he takes the bottles, the sweat of them freezing the fire in him for only a moment. The girl looks like magic.

 

His life has been magic, in a way that Harry Potter never experienced, and his hands shake when they’re not holding a gun. A droplet spills as he hands one to Gabriel, taking a swig of his own; he notices red eyes following the glass, the mouth, the swallow. Jack takes another, watches Gabriel watching him, never blinking.

 

They’re always watched. He finds that he almost doesn’t mind this time.

 

“You remember everything, don’ you?” asks the other man, after a time.

 

“Yes,” says Jack. “You do, too.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

There’s a boot nudging his foot and Jack can’t help but smile, sardonic and knowing, this territory overgrown but memorized, abandoned and breathed into again, like it’s new. “You aimin’ to relive it?” The rim of his beer is ice. He could bite into it and it would break apart like flesh.

 

“Only the good parts.”

 

The boot’s nudging up his leg now, and they’re too old for this, far too old, but Jack doesn’t want to stop any of it: he’s missed it, if he’s honest. He’s missed this stupid man with his awful personality and his disgusting smile, and he’s missed the memories he’d always pushed down, missed the training, the bruises, the other man in his head while he’s in his. Jack waits until it’s close enough before reaching down, running a hand over Gabriel’s shin. He squeezes. “ _Yo también quiero eso_ ,” he responds.

 

A laugh, louder than the others. “Your accent’s still shit, Morrison.”

 

“Sounds like I need a tutor, Reyes.”

 

Their bottles are empty. Jack’s hand is still on Gabriel’s leg and if he laughs at him again, he’ll break it, or try to break it, or curl his own around it when his back meets the wall in the alley outside the pub, after Gabriel had grabbed his hand and Jack had grabbed his cap, all crowded space and angry grips. Gabriel could break him easily. He could break Gabriel within seconds. They kiss with teeth, bite—they’ve changed but Jack can still tug at Gabriel’s bottom lip and find the same reaction from when they were young. Gabriel’s fingers are still encased in leather and it’s as if the muscle memory never went away.

 

They kiss like it’s a tragedy, like they’re both on fire and it won’t go out, like trying to kill each other for the last decade had been foreplay and quick movements and jagged sounds are the finale and the opening to the proceeding show. Every word they can manage in between breaths don’t exist: they’re mindless and intangible and not something Jack could shoot if he wanted to.

 

He still kind of wants to shoot Gabriel.

 

Gabriel fills him like smoke, trespassing and he _lets_ the man, spreads his legs like a whore and muffles his sounds with Gabriel’s neck, cigarettes and alcohol and old cologne on his tongue as he bites down, draws blood, feels the shudder run through him, and he wants it. They both want it. It’s slick and tight and in the darkness, there’s nothing that could find them. His jeans are still dangling from one leg; Jack slams his head into the brick.

 

Gabriel devours him.

 

Cleans him with tongue, oversensitive and biting back everything, hands smoothing over goosebumps as Gabriel whispers, “You can do me next,” like it’s nothing, like this isn’t how they used to play.

 

“Gonna kill you,” Jack says to the sky, boxers and jeans pulled up, picking his cap up from where he’d dropped it to the disgusting city ground. He puts it back on, regardless.

 

“Keep talkin’ sweet to me and we won’t even make it home.”

 

Jack shoves him without heat, a wiry smile on his face. There’s still blood on his mouth. He claps his hand onto the back of Gabriel’s neck, leading him; Gabriel lets himself be led, pausing only to let Jack lick into his mouth again, like he’d done to the boy in bed so many times before.

 

He tastes acid.

**Author's Note:**

> tinder fic with feelings? yeah, pretty much.


End file.
